


Explosions and Friendship

by knightinwritingarmor



Category: Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-16
Updated: 2013-09-16
Packaged: 2017-12-26 19:13:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,486
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/969298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/knightinwritingarmor/pseuds/knightinwritingarmor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock has to kill to stay alive.  That's the nature of the Hunger Games.  Then he runs into one John Watson, and decides maybe being part of a team would be better than being along.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Explosions and Friendship

Sherlock felt the explosion from his makeshift bomb from across the arena.  He also heard the screams of the camp he had just blown up.  He stood up and watched the dark plume of smoke rise in the sky and heard the cannon blasts. 

 _One.  Two.  Three.  Four.  Five._   He counted silently.  He had taken out eight of them, not a bad number.  That left three from the camp still alive, plus another four that were on their own.  They were probably starving to death; they hadn’t been ready for the arena, not like he was.  They had probably run straight into the grass, without grabbing any supplies from the Cornucopia.  He had managed to get a good amount of supplies, including the wiring and other materials necessary for building a bomb, but it was not without cost.  He had watched as the wiry Moriarty from District One slit his District Three counterpart’s throat.  Molly had been so young, only fourteen, but it was kill or be killed in here, and he was going to kill.  You couldn’t afford attachments in here, so he hadn’t cried over Molly’s death, not where the cameras could see him, anyway.  He hoped he had killed Moriarty in that blast, though.

He started running through the thick grass that surrounded the arena.  Maybe they had abandoned the camp and left some supplies he could scavenge.  He was running a little low on food, and he really didn’t fancy hunting for snakes or other animals.  He had other things to do.  The grass was taller than he was, which was lucky, so he could approach the remains of the camp stealthily.  He was running too fast, however, to stop himself from colliding with the person that darted suddenly into his path.

He and the other person fell, but Sherlock was on his feet in an instant, holding a knife and ready to strike.  The other boy was not so quick, but looked up at Sherlock with bleary and confused eyes.  They looked at each other, and Sherlock saw how bleary and confused the boy’s eyes were, and he supposed he had been sleeping somewhere near the blast, and had taken off into the grass.

They continued to stare at each other, but the boy, who Sherlock remembered was from District Two, did not jump up and prepare for a fight, even though Sherlock was holding a knife.  He knew that this boy had not been in the camp that he had been stalking since the first say of the Games, which struck him as a little strange.  Districts One, Two, and Four usually stuck together, and the fact that this boy hadn’t even tried to stay with them was odd.  That was usually what they trained for in those districts: kill all those around you, then kill each other.

“Well, what are you waiting for?” the boy exclaimed, “I’m sitting here, unarmed.  Kill me!”

Sherlock was shocked at the pleading that tinged the boy’s voice.  He raised his knife, ready to strike, to end this boy’s life the way he had just ended the lives of eight others, but he could not bring his hand down.  There was something about this boy, something about his eyes, the way they pleaded, the way they begged him for death, or for _something_ , made Sherlock put the knife back in his pocket.  He extended his hand and said,

“No.”

“No?  No?  I’m a sitting duck; I’m not even from your district!  What are you waiting for, just kill me!”

“No,” Sherlock repeated, “Maybe you can help me.”

The boy continued to stare at him, open-mouthed.

“Help you?  What makes you think I’ll help you?”

“Because if you were going to kill me, you would have already done it.  You say you’re unarmed, but I can tell that you have at least three knives on your right now, and you’re from District Two, so even though your leg was injured by the girl from District Six with the katana, you can probably still fight well.  And I would rather not make an enemy of you, if it’s all the same to you.  I was just going to see if they had left anything behind at their camp.  You can either come with me and help, or we can go our separate ways.”

He held out his hand again, and this time, the boy took it.  he put his weight gingerly on his left leg, but he could, at least, walk.

“My name is John Watson.  District Two.”

“Sherlock Holmes.  District Three.”

There was a pause, before Sherlock said,

“It will take us a while to get there, we should get going.”

John nodded.

They started walking in the direction of the blast, Sherlock walking more slowly than normal, because of John.  They walked in an almost companionable silence, and Sherlock liked having someone near him again.  Back home, he normally hated people, but this whole horrible ordeal had made him appreciate his family and neighbors back home. 

Eventually, however, they started talking.  Sherlock talked about the bomb he had built and how he had snuck in when they weren’t looking and stuck the contraption under some blankets in Irene Adler’s tent.  He talked about how he had almost been caught, and had to stab Moran from District Four in the eye to escape, and had not stopped running until he had gotten to a place where he could set off the bomb.  He knew the camp’s schedule, and had relied on where the sun was in the sky to create maximum chaos and loss of life for the camp.  He talked about his brother, Mycroft, and how he wished he could design weapons like they did in John’s district.

John didn’t say much, he mostly listened to Sherlock talk.  But he seemed interested in how Sherlock had designed the bomb, and how he had followed the group quietly since the beginning to the Games, planning this all along.

John did say that he had a sister back home, and that he hated his stupid leg and that Sherlock was the only one who didn’t seem like a total idiot or a terrifyingly ruthless killer in this whole arena.  Sherlock took it as a compliment.

They told each other they were both seventeen, that they only had a few friends back home.  They talked about big things and little things, and they ate up each other’s company, because they weren’t sure how long they would have it.

The rounded a corner in the path, and came out to the clearing where the camp had been.  It was deserted now, with a large black crater where the tents had been.  It was still smoking, and Sherlock could smell burning bodies, even though the hovercraft had already come and removed them.  John walked into the clearing, shocked by what he saw.

“Did you do this?” he asked, disbelievingly.

“Of course,” said Sherlock, slightly annoyed, “I already told you, I just took a bundle of wires and manipulated them so-”

Suddenly, they heard running footsteps, and Sherlock whipped around in time to see Moriarty throw a knife directly at him.  He ducked it and rushed Moriarty, stabbing him in the chest before he could do anything else.  There was an almost twisted satisfaction in watching him die, because he had so cruelly taken Molly Hooper’s life before she even had a chance to live.  Sherlock didn’t forget things like that.

He turned back to look at John, and his heart stopped.

John was standing there, looking a Sherlock, with the knife that Moriarty had thrown sticking out of his stomach.  Sherlock rushed forward as John began to fall, and lowered him gently to the ground.

“John?  John, look at me.  It’s not even that bad, okay.  It’s not even that bad, I’m sure I have something in my bag that can fix it.  Just…just give me one-”

“Sherlock,” John said, weakly, “Don’t worry about it, okay.  You look after yourself.  And you win for me.  You win and show those bastards what for.  You can do it, Sherlock.  You’re…so smart Sherlock, I know that and I’ve only known you a few hours so…so…”

Sherlock’s eyes filled with tears as he said,

“But I don’t want to win.  I want you to win, John.”

John smiled, blood bubbling at the corner of his mouth.

“I can’t win this one Sherlock, but I know you can.  Take care of yourself…Sherlock.”

John went limp.

He heard the cannon.

Sherlock started to cry.  He cried in front of those stupid cameras, and he cried in front of everyone in Panem, but he didn’t care.  He pushed his forehead against John’s, and then pushed himself to his feet, and began walking back into the grass, not looking back, even when he heard the hovercraft come to take the bodies away.

**Author's Note:**

> This is all thanks to my friend Caitlin, who decided I needed to be the one to write this little oneshot.


End file.
